was soothing, especially to her battered and bloody feet. A tin cup hung from the
side of the tub and she poured cup after cup over her head. When the water cooled she dried herself quickly, slipped under the bedcovers, stretched, and then
curled up. All night. I get to sleep on this amazing bed all night. Everything smells so clean. I smell clean.
She was still naked under the covers when there was a rap on the door and a
man’s voice asked if he could remove the tub. She jumped up, pulled
Mourning’s shirt and trousers back on, and opened the door. One of the rough-
looking men came in and dipped a bucket into the tub. He pitched the water out
the window without bothering to check if anyone was on the sidewalk below and
went back to fill the bucket again.
“Wait. What if there’s someone standing down there?” Olivia went to the window.
“Then the fool better move his arse.”
She backed away. When he was gone she returned to the paradise of that bed.
There’s no reason I have to leave tomorrow, she thought. The longer I stay, thebetter the chance of getting a good price for the team and wagon. Why not linger
here in heaven, where people who know nothing about me bring me anything I
ask for, and Iola pays for it?
And so she did. The next morning Olivia put on the dress that looked the
cleanest, sent the rest of her clothing out to be laundered, and went in search of a
dress shop. She paused in front of one on Fort Street called “Chez Mademoiselle
Lafleur.” A white card in the window advertised original designs all the way from Paris, France, as well as a rack of “ready-mades” just in from New York.
A tiny bell jangled when Olivia entered, causing the woman behind the
counter to look up from the book she was reading. Olivia found it difficult not to
stare at her. The tight curls that framed her face were bright blonde and her large
brown eyes were fringed by thick lashes. The light olive tone of her skin glowed
next to the gold and green brocade of her dress. She radiated warmth,
emphasized by the shiny brown-red she had painted her lips.
“Hullo,” Olivia said.
“Bonjour, Ma chérie. How nice to have you visit my shop.” The woman came
from behind the counter and offered her hand, speaking in what Olivia assumed
to be a French accent. “I am Mademoiselle Lafleur. But you must call me
Michelle.”
Olivia had guessed her to be in her thirties, but now saw that she had the figure of a younger woman. She was obviously proud of that figure; the bodice
of her dress was low-cut, displaying the ample cleavage her corset showed off.
Olivia wondered if it was customary for shop owners to introduce themselves.
Seborn certainly never had; he’d just looked up and waited for them to tell him
what they wanted. Of course, he’d already known everyone who came into his
store.
“Olivia Killion,” she said and shyly slipped her hand into Michelle’s.
“What a lovely name. But, Mon Dieu, look at your hands! What have you done to them?”
“I’ve been working on a farm.” Olivia pulled her hand away, embarrassed.
This woman even smelled elegant and Olivia felt like a graceless clodhopper.
